The Path of the Sword (77 page)

Epilogue

Stars in all their glory sparkled in the velvet vault above the chamber. Under, clouds like a thick fog. The chamber was immobile but for all the world appeared as though it floated in the nothingness between. The strangeness of it made sense in a way, for the chamber itself, if viewed by the average person would have been seen as more than strange. Truly, it would have driven most mad.

The walls were soundless waterfalls, the floor, a flat pond in whose depths could be seen kelp floating, and multicolored fish that did not exist anywhere in the world swimming. Prismic colors danced on the mirror flat surface of the pond like gems in sunlight. That too made sense, for this place that was not of the world. It was between worlds, in the void where worlds met and rubbed against each other.

In the center of the room stood a chair that defied description. The best one could do would be to say it was a throne, but it was more than that in the way that a throne is more than a wooden stool. A huge thing, it was perhaps gold, or silver, or platinum. It was studded with jewels of all colors of the rainbow, or perhaps it was not jewels but instead the gem-lights that cavorted gleefully about the room. Great arms that were like cresting waves flanked the sides, and the back rose to unimaginable heights before merging with the velvet canvas above.

In the chair sat a man, or at least he looked like a man: Two legs, two arms, a head, two eyes, a nose, a mouth...

But to gaze upon him was to know that this was no mere man. His eyes, as blue as a clear sky at noon, were as the very portals of time itself. His face was as craggy as a mountain, and as beautiful and majestic. There was a stoop to his back but it was not the stoop of frailty; it was as though he carried the weight of a universe on his shoulders.

In front of him, three figures stood. They were as disparate as anything could ever be. A woman with skin the color of pale emerald, with wheat gold hair, with features and a slender figure that had
made many men fall to their knees, gibbering. A balding man wearing a leather vest over a pristinely white shirt, bespectacled, with an ink stain on his chin, and carrying a massive tome whose title was visible but indecipherable. A figure—Man? Woman? Impossible to tell for it was shrouded in a cloak so black that not even the rainbow light could touch it.

The four stared into a great bowl made of filigreed gold on the floor, a bowl that seemed at turns filled with nothing more than water, and with images of people and places. One image was seen more than most: a tall, powerfully built, blue eyed man with golden hair.

“It is done,” grated Shomra and the cowl of the cloak dipped as though the being hidden inside bowed.

“The choice has been made,” Gaorla confirmed.

“Is it the right one?” Valsa asked. She turned to Maora. If anyone knew, it would be him. But his response was not heartening.

“We must wait and see,” he said with a rare look of doubt crossing his sharp features as he rearranged his grip on the heavy volume in his hands.

Gaorla nodded. “We must wait. We must wait and we must hope.”

“He seems a good choice,” Valsa hedged.

Gaorla leaned back in his chair and nodded pensively. “Yes, he seems a good choice. But so did the last one.”

“That one failed his trials.”

“Not all of them.”

“No. Only the most important one.”

Gaorla rose then, and stepped down from the dais and faced his children. His face was solemn almost to the point of harshness. “Jurel has passed the first trial. He has discovered who he is. He has two trials remaining. I have high hopes for him. He will succeed. He must.”

“If not,” Shomra muttered, “then all is lost.”

The four exchanged looks, the question unspoken for it was plain to all of them: would he,
could
he, succeed? And it was followed by the next unspoken question: if he did not succeed, could they stop him as they had his predecessor?

“I hope you're right father,” Valsa murmured.

At that, Gaorla smiled, and though it was meant to be a supremely confident smile, his children had known him a long, long time and they all noted the tremulous quality of it.

The four fell silent and they gazed into the bowl between them, and into the shimmering blue eyes of their newest family member.

The God of War lived again.

Here ends The Path of the Sword,

book one of The Rites of Ascension.

In book two, The Blood of War,

Jurel continues his quest to

fulfill his destiny.